


II. Winter

by lockedin221b



Series: Iacta Alea: Cast the Die [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Broken Bones, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lord John fic, M/M, Parents & Children, Shock, Single Parents, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have been attached for a decade now. While the outside world looks down at this relationship and the lord's reputation, their home life is pleasant. Hamish has taken to Sherlock, and those employed on the Watson Estate have no qualms about their master's unconventional relationship. Even Mycroft won't deter Sherlock's happiness, until his brother comes with news about an old ghost from Sherlock's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	II. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> **NB: This does not take place in the 21st century. This does not take place in the UK, or any real country that we know. It’s “realistic” but, ultimately, an entirely different universe from our own.**
> 
> The is the second of three parts.
> 
> Lots of love to [Meg](http://megg33k.tumblr.com/) for her help and reassurances that I don't, in fact, suck.

And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms.  
-William Bradford

“Are you watching, Father?” Hamish called from the saddle.

“Regretfully,” John shouted back. He was sitting on a raised bench, his right leg stretched out. On the far side of the arena, where his fifteen-year-old-son was smiling wildly from atop his thoroughbred Aristotle, Sherlock gave him a few last instructions. The winter breeze blew upwind to them, so there was no chance John would catch what they were whispering about. John tugged his coat tight and rubbed his gloved hands together.

Finally, the two dark-haired heads broke apart and Hamish straightened up in the saddle. “Let’s go, Aris.” He kept his gaze ahead and kicked, tapping the horse’s hindquarters with his crop at the same time. 

“Heels down,” Sherlock reminded needlessly; the boy had perfect posture.

Hamish circled the arena once, and then headed for the sickeningly tall oxer jump at the centre. John wanted to shield his eyes, but he managed to only wince as boy and horse soared over the jump.

“Perfect,” Sherlock said as Hamish circled back around and slowed to stop by him once again.

“Really?” Hamish was flush with excitement as much as he was from the exercise.

“Well,” Sherlock drew the single syllable out teasingly. He smirked when Hamish rolled his eyes.

He dismounted and Sherlock opened the gate for him. They untacked and rubbed down Aristotle together. The gelding had been Hamish’s birthday present two years ago. He worked with the animal nearly every day since, whether leading it for walks, or riding expertly as he did today. He was practically bouncing on his feet as they made their way around the arena and back to John.

“Did you see?” Hamish shouted and ran the last metre to his father.

“Yes. Marvellous. And I never want to see it again.” John went to stand, but his knee had stiffened in the cold and gave out on him.

Sherlock was at his side instantly, holding his arm until he steadied himself. “Alright?” he said quietly. John nodded.

Hamish slipped his arm around his father from the left and they started back to the house. “May I ask Belford for some cocoa?”

“After that display, absolutely.” He kissed the top of his son’s head.

Immediately as they stepped inside, Hamish darted off toward the kitchen. “Send us some tea,” Sherlock called after him. Hamish waved in response and disappeared around the corner.

As soon as he was out of sight, John gripped Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looked down to see he had paled considerably. His breathing was a little shallow. He leant John his support and they made their way to the study. Once behind that door, John’s calm exterior broke and he buried his face into Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock led him to the armchair by the fire. After he had John settled, he squatted beside the chair. “Did you twist it?”

John shook his head, grimacing against the pain. “Just the cold I think.”

Sherlock went to John’s desk and took a small bottle from one of the drawers. He pocketed it and went to build the fire. When Wiggins arrived with the tea, John measured his expression again. “Thank you,” Sherlock said in his stead, knowing John was overexerting himself at keeping up appearances. Wiggins bowed and left, and a groan escaped John’s mouth. Sherlock dropped to the floor and pulled up John’s trouser leg. He pulled off his gloves and retrieved the bottle from his jacket. He poured a small amount of the pungent oil onto his hands and rubbed them warm before working at John’s knee.

After a while, John let out a relieved sigh. Sherlock continued for a few more minutes before pulling John’s trouser leg back down and smoothing the fabric. Sherlock stood and John snatched his hand. He rubbed his thumb in a circle on the back of it. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, love.”

“I prefer not to entertain such ridiculous notions.” Sherlock gave his hand a light squeeze and went to put the oil back in the drawer.

Wiggins returned a little while later, after they had finished their tea and were simply enjoying the warm fire and each other’s company. He had with him an envelope. “This arrived for you,” he said. Instead of handing it to John, however, he presented it to Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. He took the paper as if it was made of glass, and Wiggins promptly left. He felt John’s eyes on him as opened the plain seal.

_Sherlock_

_Coming for supper. Don’t protest. Give John my regards._

_MH_

Sherlock scowled and passed the note. John heaved a sigh. “I forget how pretentious your brother can be.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’d like to, though.” He grinned, but Sherlock was lost to distraction, already dreading his brother’s visit. They always came with a lecture about how he was causing John more harm than good, that he should pick up and move on with his life. Not that either of them ever told John what these private conversations between brothers consisted of. The first few times it happened, Sherlock argued vehemently with Mycroft. Eventually, though, he took to sitting quietly until it was over before bidding his brother a safe journey.

 

Dinner was, as always and expected with Mycroft present, a tense affair. Even the usually animated and verbose Hamish ate his meal quietly, aside from answering Mycroft’s trivial questions: how were his studies, his riding, and so on. As with any guest in attendance, Mrs. Hudson had been excused from the family meal, though it was still taken in the small dining room. John had long since forgone putting on airs with Mycroft Holmes, and that was just as well for Sherlock. His brother had enough of an ego without being treated specially.

After dessert, Mycroft requested the use of John’s parlour as he always did. John courteously gave it, and the Holmes brothers excused themselves. When Sherlock closed the parlour door, which was rarely ever shut, he turned to Mycroft, steeling himself for a lecture. Mycroft had taken a seat, respectfully in one of the chairs reserved for audiences. Sherlock sat on the edge of John’s chair, across from him.

“Well,” Sherlock said.

“Well what?” Mycroft mused.

“Get on with it.”

“With what?”

Sherlock sneered. “Every time you come here for ‘a visit,’ it’s because some snake at court has made some distasteful remark or another towards John. And every time that happens, you take it upon yourself to all but order me away from this estate.”

Mycroft quirked a brow and gave Sherlock a thin smile. “Would ordering you finally give me a result?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “John is plenty aware of what those at court have to say, and if he has no intention of dismissing me then I have no intention of leaving his side.”

“Good.”

Sherlock started. “What?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I said ‘good.’ It’s good that Lord Watson has someone he can rely on.”

“Where’s this come from?” Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

“I think it’s wonderful. And it certainly hasn’t done your manners any harm. In fact, I think you’ve become nearly personable since striking up your acquaintance with him.” Mycroft folded his hands in his lap.

Sherlock bristled. “Mycroft-”

“In fact,” he interrupted, and caught Sherlock’s gaze with a pointed look. “Perhaps you should take some time away from Watson estate. Take the boy with you. He should see some more of the world, especially at his age. Bright young fellow.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock interrupted sharply. “What the bloody hell are you trying to get at?”

“Just as I’ve said. I really can’t be much plainer, brother.”

Sherlock laughed gruffly. “You are the least plain talker I’ve ever met, Mycroft, and we were raised under the same roof.” He glowered. “Now tell me what this is about.”

Mycroft sighed, and his carefully constructed mask, which always gave Sherlock trouble, began to fade ever so slightly. He dug into his jacket and pulled something out, though for a moment it remained hidden in his fist. “There is no way I can expect you to brace yourself,” Mycroft said quietly. “But do try.” He reached across the gap between them, and Sherlock met it with an open palm. Slowly, like a gentle waterfall, a chain poured from Mycroft’s hand into his own, completed with a round metal disk.

His senses went numb. He could barely feel the metal in his hand, though it remained the one thing he could feel. He fingered the tag, rotating it so he could read the pressed words. He knew what they said, of course he knew. It was his name after all.

“They’ll call you to the capitol in a couple of days,” Mycroft said quietly. “Don’t be here when they do.”

Sherlock looked up. “He was-”

“He wasn’t. We all thought so, Sherlock. We all thought he’d died in that blaze. No one imagined he’d survived. It shouldn’t have been possible. That’s how he managed to keep out of sight for almost eleven years.”

“I should see him,” Sherlock muttered. “I have to see him.”

“No,” Mycroft said sharply. “That is the last thing you need, and it’s the last thing you’ll do.” He rose and went over to his brother, gripping his arm. “Look at me.” Sherlock turned his face obediently, in a haze. “Stay away from him. Take John and Hamish and go away for a few weeks. Let this pass. You don’t need to be around for this.”

“Yes I do.”

Mycroft scowled. “They won’t hunt you down, Sherlock. Yes, they want you at the trial, but they won’t require it. If you aren’t home, there’s nothing they can do.”

“I need to be there for him. I can’t just abandon him to those-” His words were cut off when Mycroft struck the side of his face. He brought a trembling hand to his cheek.

“Listen to yourself,” Mycroft hissed. “That man has been nothing but cruel—monstrous to you.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, and the tag slipped from his hands and onto the floor. Mycroft crouched in front of his brother. “Look at what you have now, Sherlock. Think about John. Think about Hamish. I know I haven’t been supportive, but damn it! Don’t throw them away for that—that animal.”

Slowly, Sherlock came out of his stupor. He looked at his brother, and Mycroft released his grip and stepped back. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. Then, with his usual annoyed tone he reserved for Mycroft and his kind, he said, “And I suppose you already have somewhere in mind for our last minute holiday?” Before Mycroft left, he wrote down the name of a place in the southern countryside.

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the evening wandering the grounds. He had to think, and he had to do this without John’s evident concern that always managed to guilt Sherlock into revealing his thoughts. So he walked down to the frozen pond and sat on the cold bench inside the boathouse. He fingered the metal in his pocket.

There were few points which Sherlock was ever willing to concede to Mycroft. He knew this was one of them. The whole ordeal made him ill. In hindsight, it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his dinner as soon as he saw the tag, as soon as the realisation of what it meant sunk in. As it was, every ancient scar on his body ached and burned anew. His mind kept slipping away, and only the biting cold burrowing through his thin jacket kept him sane.

Part of him was desperate to fight Mycroft on the matter. Not because he hated when Mycroft was right, but because he wanted to go to that trial. An old, twisted part of himself, a part he had managed to shrink and bury deep during his years with John, that part wanted to save the convicted man. And Sherlock loathed himself for it. If he could, he would rip that piece of himself out and burry it in the earth instead.

When he finally went inside, he was numb from the cold as much as from the news Mycroft had brought him. He went to his room first, the room he rarely used except to store clothes. They kept it for appearances, appearances no one believed. At the moment, Sherlock was glad to have this small privacy. He knelt by the bed and dragged out his old case. Inside was a wooden box that held his old revolver. He removed it and took out the false bottom, where the tag he had worn onto the Watson Estate ten and a half years ago lay neglected. He dropped his tag beside it, replaced the bottom and pistol, and shoved it all back under the bed.

He stripped and put on his nightshirt and dressing gown before going to John’s room, the room that might as well be called theirs. He went in quietly, but John was still awake. The lamp on his bedside table was still lit, and he propped himself up in bed as soon as Sherlock walked in.

“Alright, love?”

Sherlock nodded. How he hated to lie to John, but a louder part of him was insisting this was for the best, that John didn’t need to know the demon from Sherlock’s past was alive and walking the earth. He hung his dressing gown by the door and climbed into bed with John.

“God, you’re freezing!” At once John wrapped Sherlock in his arms and pulled him close. “Were you outside this entire time?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. John’s grip suddenly grounded him, and the fog that had settled in his mind earlier finally dissipated. He smiled at John. “Didn’t think to put on a coat.”

“You’re an idiot.” John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Unlike John, whose hair had started to pepper at thirty-four, Sherlock’s hair was still as raven as ever. “What did Mycroft want? There wasn’t a lot of shouting this time.” Sherlock looked guiltily at him, but John just chuckled. “I’m not brainless, my dear. I know what he has to say when he comes ‘round.”

“Not this time,” Sherlock murmured.

“Oh?”

“He actually apologised.” Sherlock was beginning to feel drowsy under John’s gentle strokes along his temple. He closed his eyes and nuzzled closer. John tightened his embrace.

“Seems unlikely,” John said, his voice quieter.

“I thought so as well. He’s sincere enough, though. Even booked us a holiday in the south.”

“Really?”

Sherlock hummed softly. “I think we should. Just you, me, and Hamish. It will be good for your leg at the very least.”

“You’re probably right. As usual.” John’s chest rumbled with a small laugh. Sherlock thought John might have said something else, and maybe he’d managed a response, but the last solid thought before he drifted off was that of John’s lips pressed lightly against his brow.

 

Two days after Mycroft’s visit, Sherlock, John, and Hamish set out for their holiday. They began early in the morning with John wrapped tightly in a thick cloak. Mycroft had sent further details, including that the country home was fully staffed, so they took no servants except their driver, who would stay in the nearby town. Wiggins was left in charge of the estate, and Mrs. Hudson was given the holiday to visit her sister’s family. 

John slept most of the two and a half days they spent on the road, often leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder. Hamish, when he wasn’t obsessively looking out the window to make sure Aristotle was alright in the strange harness, read from his newest cowboy novel, sitting sideways on the bench across from Sherlock and his father with his feet on the seat. Sherlock, for his part, thought more than he cared to during their journey. His mind frequently went to the revolver he had brought with them, still packed away but thoroughly cleaned.

Not long after lunch on their third day, as Hamish was looking out the window, he cried out, “Look!”

“Hamish,” Sherlock said in a sharp whisper. Hamish looked back to see his father asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. John stirred anyway, and Hamish apologised again.

“It’s alright.” John smiled. “What has you so excited then?”

Hamish directed them to the window. Through the trees of the lightly wooded landscape they could just make out a narrow waterfall. The sun shone now and then through the trees and it glistened.

The house was a large, one-story building with bare flowerbeds in front. It was probably beautiful in the spring. As it was, it looked cosy nestled among the trees. A greying, slightly wrinkled woman greeted them as they pulled up. At once Sherlock had misgivings about her. She had a rigid smile on her face, as if it had been forced in place. She introduced herself as Mrs. Weber, the caretaker of the place.

As a couple of servants went about unloading the carriage, Mrs. Weber showed them through the house. It was comfortably furnished, though not lavishly. The cause for her discomfort became apparent when they were shown their rooms. She led them to Hamish’s first, and then to the master bedroom. By this point, her smile had flattened into a tight line.

“Are you quite sure you’ll be comfortable? I assured Lord Holmes that there was a third bedroom avail-”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weber,” John interrupted with a pleasant smile. “This will be quite fine. The house is lovely.”

“Of course,” she said and hurried off.

Sherlock rested a hand on John’s shoulder. “This is supposed to be relaxing. If dealing with these idiots will cause you distress, I’ll take the extra bedroom.”

“Not having you with me would be far more distressing,” John replied. He reached up and gripped Sherlock’s hand.

They left unpacking for later and went into the parlour for tea. When it was discovered Mrs. Weber was also the cook, Sherlock made a point to praise the food. At least he could be honest in that respect. The small smile John passed him said the gesture was appreciated. Mrs. Weber was marginally less huffy, but still didn’t care to stay in the room with them longer than was necessary.

“Can we go look at the waterfall?” Hamish pleaded.

One look at John told Sherlock that would not be happening. “How about tomorrow? It’s been a long few days. Let’s just take it easy for the rest of the day.” Hamish submitted to the decision easily once he followed Sherlock’s second glance to his father.

 

The outing was postponed when they woke to find a moderate layer of snow on the ground, and more still falling. Sherlock grumbled about how it was supposed to be warmer, that was the whole point of them coming. John just chuckled and kissed his cheek.

The snow stopped early in the afternoon, and Hamish shot out the door. It turned out Mrs. Weber had two sons about Hamish’s age, whom he met with surprise. The shock was short-lived, and for the rest of the daylight hours they gallivanted about together. Mrs. Weber had cocoa ready for them when they came in, and she seemed to warm to Hamish at least when he sat in the kitchen as an equal with her own boys.

It warmed enough the next day that some of the snow melted, only to ice over that night. Hamish sulked about the place the following day, disappointed that his ride had been postponed yet again.

“What about the books you brought with you?” Sherlock looked up from his own text.

“Read them,” Hamish grumbled and dropped onto the floor by Sherlock’s chair. John was resting in the bedroom.

“All of them?”

“The two new ones. I thought I’d want to reread the others, but I don’t. I know them through and through. It’s just dull to look at the words again.”

Sherlock smirked. He closed his book and hung it before Hamish’s face. “Try this.”

Hamish took it gingerly. “What is it?”

“You can read, can’t you?” Sherlock teased.

“It’s in Latin,” Hamish shot back.

“And I distinctly remember your lessons in the subject. How old were you when you surpassed Mrs. Hudson, and I had to take over?”

“Ten,” Hamish said with a ridiculous grin.

“Precisely. Challenge yourself.”

Hamish ran his fingers across the cover. “ _De rerum natura_. Titus Lucretius Carus.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Did you teach me Lucretius?”

“A little, yes. As you can see, the full volume is far more expansive.”

Hamish flipped open to the first page and started reading. Sherlock sat with him for a while, sometimes reading over his shoulder, sometimes just thinking. Now and then, but very rarely, Hamish would ask him to verify a word or phrase. When Sherlock rose to go check on John, the boy curled up in his vacated seat, nose still in the pages.

John was still asleep. Sherlock lay down on top of the covers and ran his fingers through the greying hair. John stirred and smiled sleepily up at him.

“How’s your leg?”

“Bit stiff,” John murmured, stretching it under the blankets. “Not too bad.”

“Good.” Sherlock kissed his brow. “Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

“I don’t know if Hamish would agree. Is he still bemoaning the delay?”

“He was, but then I gave him Lucretius.” Sherlock smirked.

John groaned and rolled his eyes. “You two will have it out by the end of the week.”

Sherlock laughed softly. There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Weber called through the wood, “Master Holmes, a message has come for you.”

He and John exchanged a look. Sherlock rolled out of bed and combed his fingers through his hair. “Thank you, Mrs. Weber. Coming.”

“Mycroft?” John suggested. Sherlock shrugged. It was possible, though Mycroft had refused to keep Sherlock up to date on the trial.

The man who met Sherlock just inside the front entrance was well-known to him. “Lestrade,” he greeted with a curt nod.

“Master Sherlock.” Gregory Lestrade had been with their family since Mycroft returned from university, with this friend in tow. He was employed as their father’s personal guard at the time, and now served as Mycroft’s. Sherlock was not keen on what it meant that Mycroft had sent Lestrade, of all people.

He followed Lestrade’s gaze over his shoulder to the parlour and an overtly interested Hamish, who immediately hid behind Lucretius. “Care for a stroll?” Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and bundled up outside. They started a wide circle around the house. Sherlock didn’t prompt Lestrade again until they were well away from the door. “What’s happened?”

“This fellow who’s been on trial?” Sherlock nodded. “Well, he’s got loose.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Loose?”

“Escaped custody. Bloody hell knows how. Court’s in an uproar. They’re almost certain he had an assistant, though.”

“Have they picked up any leads?” Sherlock’s chest felt hollow.

Lestrade shook his head. “But they’ve got guards watching the Watson Estate.”

“He won’t go there.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Where then?”

Sherlock turned to him abruptly. “Thank you for coming here yourself. You’ll stay the night of course?”

Lestrade nodded, confused but willing to let it drop. He knew the Holmes brothers well enough not to push a subject when it’s been dismissed. “Appreciate it.”

“Let’s go back inside. Mrs. Weber generally has something hot to drink in the kitchen.” Just before they went back in, though, Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s upper arm. “Do me a favour.”

“Of course.” Lestrade was, if nothing else, loyal.

“Don’t mention any of this to John. Please,” he added, and Lestrade’s frown relaxed at the word.

When they sat down to dinner that night, Lestrade joined them. Mrs. Weber and her boys always ate afterwards, in their small home a few metres off from the main house. Of course John asked what brought Lestrade down to them.

“Master Holmes wanted to make sure you were enjoying yourselves,” Lestrade responded without missing a beat. Fair answer; under normal circumstances it would be like Mycroft to be nosy about such things.

“We are,” John said. “Pass along our gratitude when you return.”

“Of course, sir.” The rest of the meal was filled with idle chatter. Sherlock did his best to keep a front, but his mind wandered more and more as the evening darkened.

 

After Lestrade left, it didn’t take long for Sherlock lose himself in the atmosphere of the countryside once more. John discovered a chess set in the chest of their room when looking for an extra quilt. According to Mrs. Weber, it had been her late husband’s, who hadn’t been very good at the game but enjoyed it nevertheless. John and Sherlock played a few games a day, and occasionally Hamish would watch. When he finished Lucretius some days later, he tried his hand a few times against each of them.

“What did you think of Lucretius then?” John said as he moved his knight.

“Still thinking,” Hamish murmured. He took one of John’s bishops. He was often like that after reading a more intellectual text, compared to his cowboy novels. He would think about it for days before finally saying something, which he did at the end of their second week there. John was sleeping, which he did a little less frequently at least, and Hamish strolled into the parlour from his room. He stood in front of Sherlock, who looked up from the chessboard where he was playing himself. “Titus Lucretius Clarus is a pompous-” he gestured wildly.

“Cock?” Sherlock offered.

Hamish went red and burst out laughing. “Yes,” he managed to blurt out.

“How about we take that ride, and we can talk about it?” Sherlock dropped into the bedroom to jot down a note for John. Then they bundled up and saddled the horses.

The snow had melted and soaked into the ground for the most part. The area did in fact prove to be warmer than their home, and their first few days had merely been an odd cold spell. The footing was safe enough, but they took their time. For the first half of their trip, Hamish was intent on their conversation about Lucretius. He spent quite a while exasperated with Lucretius’ ego.

“But,” Sherlock said when Hamish had settled some, “what do you think of the content?”

“Oh, it’s brilliant,” Hamish grumbled resentfully. “I just wish he wasn’t so immodest.”

Sherlock laughed. “Well, at least he had reason for it.” That sent Hamish into a tirade of praises, more about the structure of the poem than anything else. He quieted as soon as the waterfall became so loud he would have to shout to be heard, and they rounded a clump of trees to see it in its full glory.

The light spray was frigid, but they bore through it to get a close look. It helped that they were closer to the top than to the bottom. The waterfall shot down a few dozen metres before disappearing beneath the earth.

“Where does it go?” Hamish shouted.

“Underground river?” Sherlock shrugged. After a moment they backed off and looked at it from afar.

“Wonder if Lucretius ever saw something like this,” Hamish said, completely in awe of the fall. He took Sherlock by surprise when he leaned against him. Sherlock put his arm around the boy’s shoulder, and they stood for a while like that before Hamish looked up. “Is Father dying?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he turned sharply to face Hamish. “Of course not,” he cried. “What on earth gave you that idea?”

Hamish’s voice trembled. “He just seems so tired lately. And then this holiday out of nowhere. And you’ve been behaving so strangely.”

“Oh God, Hamish. No, no he’s not dying.” Sherlock pulled him close and Hamish wrapped his arms tightly about him. “He’s tired, but it’s just the cold. He already has more energy down here. You can’t have missed that.” Hamish nodded against his coat. “The holiday was sudden because Mycroft didn’t want to give me a chance to refuse him.” He looked down at Hamish with a smile, and Hamish returned it tentatively. Sherlock combed his fingers through the boy’s hair. “As for me? I’m always strange.” That got a laugh from Hamish. Sherlock took his shoulders and pulled back a little. He met and held Hamish’s gaze. “You know how important honesty is to your father. God forbid anything happened, he would tell you. You know he would.”

Hamish nodded and wiped his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock hugged him again and rubbed his back. “You’re good to care about your father so much.”

“I care about you, too,” Hamish said, his voice muffled in Sherlock’s coat.

Sherlock’s chest swelled and he squeezed Hamish tight. “And I care about you.”

“If I could have two fathers, you would be the other.” Hamish looked up and smiled.

“Then we couldn’t get into as much mischief together.” Sherlock grinned and Hamish laughed again. They went back to their horses, which they had left tied farther from the falls, and started back.

Hamish switched the conversation to chess next, listening hungrily to whatever Sherlock had to tell him about the game. It was for this reason, his attention focused on Sherlock, that when a gun went off somewhere nearby and their horses reared, Sherlock kept his seat but Hamish tumbled to the ground and cried out

Sherlock was out of his saddle as soon as his horse stopped prancing enough to do so. Hamish was squirming on the ground, his arm right arm twisted horribly.

“Hold still,” Sherlock said.

“Oh God, it hurts,” Hamish whimpered.

“I think it’s broken.” He barely touched the skin and Hamish let out a sharp cry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. We need to get you to your father.”

“I can’t ride.” Tears were streaming down his face.

It didn’t matter because Aristotle had run off, but Sherlock didn’t bring that up. “We’ll manage. I’m sorry, Hamish, but we have to move you.” Hamish bit his lip and nodded. “Hold your bad arm with your good. That way you know how much it hurts and how stable it is.” He followed Sherlock’s instructions. Sherlock lifted him as carefully as possibly, cringing every time a sob escaped Hamish’s mouth. After he managed the difficult feet of getting Hamish into his own saddle, which resulted in a last strangled shout from Hamish’s throat, Sherlock climbed awkwardly up behind the saddle. “Just lean against me. I’ve got you.”

The walk was frighteningly slow. At some point Hamish quieted and shook against Sherlock’s chest. As soon as they saw the house, Sherlock shouted for Mrs. Weber’s boys. The eldest came running, his grin fading at the sight of the form curled against Sherlock.

“His arm’s broken. Wake Master Watson if he isn’t already.” The boy nodded and bolted for the main house.

Mrs. Weber met them outside the front door. “Oh my god, what happened?”

Sherlock ignored her question. “Help me get him down and inside.” They managed it between the two of them. John was limping hurriedly from the bedroom when they went in.

“What happened?”

“He fell,” Sherlock said. They brought him back to Hamish’s bedroom and laid him on the bed.

“We need to get this coat off,” John said. Sherlock watched the doctor inside him come alive, something he’d seen in the past when either he or Hamish or anyone else in the house had fallen ill or injured. There was still a strong father’s fierceness about him, though.

In the end, they had to cut the coat and Hamish’s clothes. He shivered in the cool air, and Sherlock covered his torso and good arm with a blanket. It slipped off when Hamish reached out to latch his arm around Sherlock’s. After examining his son’s arm, John took a steady breath and forced the bone into place. Hamish’s scream echoed through the house and woods, and he gripped Sherlock’s arm painfully. Sherlock hardly noticed.

As soon as the bone was set, John sent Sherlock and Mrs. Weber to fetch supplies for a splint. Out in the parlour, Sherlock lay into the woman. “Why didn’t you tell us there were hunters in these woods?”

“There aren’t!” Mrs. Weber’s lip trembled. “If there are, they’re poachers.” She tried to straighten her back. “I promise you, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t imagine there would be any hunters in these parts. They shouldn’t be.”

Sherlock forced himself to calm his breathing. “I believe you. My apologies.” She nodded stiffly and they went about their set tasks.

They managed to find materials suitable enough to stabilize Hamish’s arm. After giving him a small dose of John’s morphine, which he himself rarely conceded to take, the boy drifted off. Sherlock managed to drag John from the room momentarily. “Aristotle ran off,” he whispered. “I’m going to try and find him before Hamish comes to.” John nodded. He looked years older, exhausted to the core. Sherlock squeezed his hand. “He’ll be fine, John. He has a brilliant doctor taking care of him.” John smiled, tired but sincere.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to find Aristotle. Enough time had passed that the creature was considerably calmed and easy to approach. It could have been a lot worse; the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was have to put down Hamish’s horse because of a broken leg. He lifted the reins and dropped them around Aristotle’s neck. The horse sniffed him and went back to looking for grass. Sherlock scratched it behind the ear before mounting up and leading the runaway alongside his own horse. For them, it was as if there had never been a gunshot.

 

Hamish slept through most of what was left of the day and the next. He woke in tears when the morphine wore off, and John or Sherlock gave him another dose. Mrs. Weber made a stew special for him, eliciting a multitude of thanks from Sherlock and John.

Sherlock went out the next morning as soon as he’d finished breakfast, which he only ate at John’s insistence. He was intent on finding the damned bastards who’d caused this. It was his horse’s exhaustion and not his own that forced him back a couple hours before dark. To Sherlock’s surprise, Mrs. Weber greeted him with a hot drink and some of Hamish’s stew, which she forced him to eat.

“Thank you,” he said before he picked up his spoon.

“He’s a good lad,” she said, and she went off to prepare supper.

Hamish was awake when Sherlock looked in on him after eating. “How are you feeling?”

“Ouch,” Hamish said and smiled painfully.

“I can imagine.” Sherlock sat beside him on the bed.

“Is Aris alright?”

“Just fine.” Sherlock combed the messy bangs from his forehead. “Probably wondering where you are, but he’s fine. Where’s your father?”

“Sleeping.” Hamish grinned. “Mrs. Weber made him go to bed.”

“Good. I would have done the same myself.”

“Papa said it was a clean break.” Hamish looked at his immobilized arm. Sherlock nodded. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, Hamish?”

“You didn’t tell him what I said, did you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I think that’s one topic that doesn’t need to be brought up, not right now.”

Hamish relaxed visibly. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You should try to get some sleep as well.”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” Hamish groaned. “I’m bored.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Should I get the chessboard?”

“Yes!” Hamish lowered his voice and said, “But don’t let Mrs. Weber see you. She said I’m supposed to be sleeping, too.”

They played for an hour, at which point John came in and chided them both. “You, young man, are to be resting,” he directed to his son, and to Sherlock, “and you are a horrible influence.” Then he sat back in his chair by Hamish’s bed and played Hamish in the next round.

 

Two days before they were scheduled to go home, they heard another gunshot. Sherlock slammed down the book he was reading and strode to the door. John called after him, but he ignored him. He tugged on his coat and went out to the stable, where he tossed on his horse’s bridle and mounted bareback. They had been startled by the noise, but his older horse knew when to listen. It was foolish to go out bareback when another gun might fire, but Sherlock ignored that too and trotted off into the woods.

He spent three hours searching out the perpetrator. He even tracked them down to the location where the gun had gone off. The gunpowder was still pungent, among the other signs Sherlock could tick off. But there he lost the trail, so he turned back no less frustrated than when he’d set off.

When Sherlock walked through the door, Hamish called from the parlour, “You have the worst timing.” He rolled his eyes when Sherlock looked up at him.

“What do you mean?”

Hamish fiddled with the chess pieces before him. “Some mate of yours just dropped in. He and Father went for a walk, thought they might see you.”

Sherlock’s skin prickled. “What was his name?”

“Hm?”

“This friend of mine.”

Hamish looked up. “Oh. Brook? Richard Brook.”

Sherlock fled to the bedroom, where he extracted the revolver from his case and loaded it. As he rushed out the door, he ordered Hamish to stay put. Sherlock’s horse was too tired, so he regretfully saddled Aristotle and took off through the woods. He went back first to the scene of the gunshot, but again the trail went dead there. He backtracked along their route from the day Hamish broke his arm. When he heard the waterfall, a sickening thought crossed his mine. He kicked Aristotle into a canter and they crashed through the woods until the waterfall appeared. He dismounted before Aristotle had stopped moving.

Sprawled on the ground, perhaps only a metre from the drop-off, was John. His cane was nowhere in sight. Standing behind and above him was a slender man in an expensive, fur-lined cloak. He looked no worse for the past eleven years than Sherlock did, not even a scar from the fire that had supposedly killed him, but the insanity in his eyes had not dissolved. If anything, it was tenfold than it was the last time Sherlock saw him.

He felt the ground fall out from under him. He thought his legs would give way. He was dizzy. The man looked up from John and smiled at him. Then he crouched down, grabbed John’s face, and forced his gaze up. Sherlock could see his name form on John’s lips. He felt sick.

Sherlock stepped closer, slowly. Once he was near enough to hear the man’s words over the waterfall, still a couple metres away, the man produced a knife from his cloak and pressed the flat of it against John’s cheek. Sherlock’s feet stopped moving.

“You weren’t at my big show,” James shouted, his voice slick and cold as it ran through Sherlock’s body.

“I was at your funeral,” Sherlock said. James grinned, and the wildness inside him shown through.

“Are you sure it was mine?”

“There was a body,” Sherlock choked.

“So I heard. Burnt up pretty badly. But no ID tag.” Sherlock’s stomach churned. “So it was really just guesswork, wasn’t it? Process of elimination, though the corpse could have been anyone. Any random man, as long as he had the height, the build. An enemy soldier, or perhaps one of those charming townsfolk.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said, trembling. “Stop it!” James laughed, sharp and a touch manic. “What do you want, James? Me? I’ll come back, I swear.” His chest rattled, his words halting. “Just let him go. Please.” He ventured to glance at John. It was a mistake. John’s wide eyes were begging him, telling him _no_.

“Why would I want you?” James sneered, like he’d just caught the scent of rotten meat. “An old, used up toy.” He dropped one knee to the ground and curled his free hand around John’s jaw. “Not when I could have something new.”

Sherlock stumbled forward, but the blade moved down and pressed dangerously against John’s neck and he stopped. His eyes stung.

“Although,” he sighed, “this one is a little broken.” James’ hand dropped to John’s shoulder and he dug his fingers into the scar. John’s eyes widened and water, but he bit hard on his lip. “Tough, though. I can see why you like him.” His hand travelled down, almost sensually. Sherlock felt like he was going to throw up, but now anger was beginning to override his fear. James’ hand settled on John’s right knee. “So broken, though.” He dug his fingers into the knee and this time John couldn’t hold back a cry of pain.

“Stop it, James!” Somehow the revolver had found its way to Sherlock’s hand in the brief moment James had taken his gaze away, in the brief moment when he was intent and obsessed with causing John pain.

For a breath, James was shocked. Then his thin smile returned. “You never were a good shot, Sherlock.” He stood, yanking John with him. John trembled from the strain on his bad leg. “You’re right, though. I don’t want this one. Too old and broken. That young thing, however,” he mused, turning John’s face to look at him.

John’s look of pain turned to fury in an instant. “Don’t you dare lay a hand-”

The rest of his words were cut off. Sherlock had dropped the gun and charged headlong, slamming into John and James. Most of the brunt hit James, though, knocking John aside to the ground. The momentum of his rage kept going, pushing James to the edge until they both slipped over it, instantly taken under by the waterfall. Somewhere nearby a gun went off, but the prey had already fallen.


End file.
